Over a sandwich (not toasted), Walt and I continued our conversation.
"A bad thing that happened this Spring was I had to put my dog down".
"Oh Walt", I said, "that's sad. How old was he?"
"He was 23. He was a shepherd."
"Twenty-three!! That's amazing!" I said. "I've never heard of a dog living to 23!"
"Yup. Twenty-three. And it weren't his back end that went. It was his front end. I knew he had to go cuz he started to whine. And he never whined before so I knew he was in pain."
"The hardest thing was to get him to stay in the hole soes I could shoot him". I had to give him a little treat you know".
He must have seen the look of shock on my face as I absorbed this last bit of information, because he said a little defensively:
"Well, I wasn't going to pay some vet $200 to do it". I dug the hole last fall cuz I knew he wasn't going to be around much longer."
Somehow, the thought of the dog's pre-dug grave is the saddest thing of all.
I also discovered Walt doesn't like lettuce in his sandwiches. Only in salads.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Friday, May 6, 2011
One of these things is not like the other
Not everybody views life the same way. This was brought home to me just this morning.
After last week's windstorm, we awoke to find a truckload of branches on our lawn, and two or three trees down in our "woodlot" out back. Nothing valuable or pretty -- just some old scrags that we probably should have cut down ourselves, but hadn't. Still, it made a mess.
Ian surveyed the scene with dismay. "God damn" he said. "Another two days wasted cleaning up." (Since he's retired, I'm not sure what exactly he meant by "wasted", but I let it go. ) "Call Walt", I suggested. "He could probably use the work and, why should you do it?" "Perhaps I will" he said.
Walt (name changed to avoid embarrassment, or possible law suit) is an interesting character. His family has lived in the area for a long time. His brother runs a small machine shop where we get the lawn mower serviced in the Spring. Walt drives a beat up old Ford truck and does odd jobs. He has a beard and smokes a pipe, often while he's working. If we lived in West Virginia, I would call Walt a mountain man. I can see him relaxing on his porch in the evenings, dog by his side and perhaps a glass of "shine" in his hand. But we live in eastern Ontario, so I'm not sure he fits any stereotype.
Anyhow, Ian called Walt and he showed up this morning. I brought him a coffee (one and a half sugars and some milk) and asked him how things were going.
"Not too bad" he replied. "I fell out of a tree last fall and busted up my collarbones and my back, but other than that I'm OK".
"Good grief" I said, "Should you be doing this?"
"Oh it's OK" he said. "I need the money".
To which there was no answer.
Later on, I brought out some chocolate zucchini bread. Walt was reasonably pleased with the zucchini bread: "Especially since I didn't eat no breakfast. I never eat breakfast".
"Why not Walt" I asked.
"Well" he said, "the night before my first day in high school, there was a big thunderstorm. The next morning, I was in a hurry to get across the highway, but when I put my bread in the toaster, it wouldn't toast. So I said (pardon my language): 'Fuck this. I'm never eating toast again. I'm never eating breakfast again'. And I haven't. And I'm 55. The only toast I'll eat is in a grilled cheese or French toast. If you were to make me a sandwich with toasted bread I wouldn't eat it."
You just never know what makes people the way they are, do you?
After last week's windstorm, we awoke to find a truckload of branches on our lawn, and two or three trees down in our "woodlot" out back. Nothing valuable or pretty -- just some old scrags that we probably should have cut down ourselves, but hadn't. Still, it made a mess.
Ian surveyed the scene with dismay. "God damn" he said. "Another two days wasted cleaning up." (Since he's retired, I'm not sure what exactly he meant by "wasted", but I let it go. ) "Call Walt", I suggested. "He could probably use the work and, why should you do it?" "Perhaps I will" he said.
Walt (name changed to avoid embarrassment, or possible law suit) is an interesting character. His family has lived in the area for a long time. His brother runs a small machine shop where we get the lawn mower serviced in the Spring. Walt drives a beat up old Ford truck and does odd jobs. He has a beard and smokes a pipe, often while he's working. If we lived in West Virginia, I would call Walt a mountain man. I can see him relaxing on his porch in the evenings, dog by his side and perhaps a glass of "shine" in his hand. But we live in eastern Ontario, so I'm not sure he fits any stereotype.
Anyhow, Ian called Walt and he showed up this morning. I brought him a coffee (one and a half sugars and some milk) and asked him how things were going.
"Not too bad" he replied. "I fell out of a tree last fall and busted up my collarbones and my back, but other than that I'm OK".
"Good grief" I said, "Should you be doing this?"
"Oh it's OK" he said. "I need the money".
To which there was no answer.
Later on, I brought out some chocolate zucchini bread. Walt was reasonably pleased with the zucchini bread: "Especially since I didn't eat no breakfast. I never eat breakfast".
"Why not Walt" I asked.
"Well" he said, "the night before my first day in high school, there was a big thunderstorm. The next morning, I was in a hurry to get across the highway, but when I put my bread in the toaster, it wouldn't toast. So I said (pardon my language): 'Fuck this. I'm never eating toast again. I'm never eating breakfast again'. And I haven't. And I'm 55. The only toast I'll eat is in a grilled cheese or French toast. If you were to make me a sandwich with toasted bread I wouldn't eat it."
You just never know what makes people the way they are, do you?
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